Thicker Than Blood
by ChaosWithImagination
Summary: Mycroft is kidnapped. The Game is on as Sherlock tries to find his brother. The situation is desperate because the kidnapper keeps sending vials of Mycroft's blood to Sherlock as both punishments and incentive. Will Sherlock find his brother before Mycroft is bled to death?
1. Chapter 1

I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK

* * *

The room was dark and smelt of bleach and stale water. His head pounded and his body felt heavy and lethargic. He was in a chair. Small, made of industrial iron, with holes in the back and in the seat. Suddenly his train of thought spun away from him with a rapidity that made him gasp. Drugged. Definitely drugged. He tried to recall the events that led up to this point but the details were fuzzy. He tried to run a mental list of all the substances he knew would cause the particular sensations that he was experiencing but his brain refused to co-operate. Random facts and memories ran havoc through his usually meticulous thought processes. He felt a surge of annoyance. Suddenly the darkness was rent with a vertical white line of light. He blinked three times quickly allowing his vision to acclimatize to the light, forcing himself to be ready to analyze whatever came through that light. For a long while nothing happened. The line of light remained just the same width and height. Then his vision began to go blurry and his mental alertness further deteriorated. When he could no longer form a coherent thought the line widened and a dark figure strode in as if walking in slow motion. He knew it was just a trick of the mind but he could no longer hold onto any clear thought. There was a prick in his arm and a pat on the face with a gloved hand. Then the figure retreated and the line of light disappeared.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock called his eyes fixed in the telescope.

"Hmmm," John answered from his arm chair and turned a page.

"John!" Sherlock called sounding more frustrated at John's lack of enthusiasm.

"I said hmmm," John called back, then paused, "What do you want Sherlock?"

"I need you to come, take my phone out and text Lestrade," Sherlock said quickly, "I solved the case."

John sighed and got up. He made his way over to the tall slim detective and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out the phone, thumbed up the message app and waited.

"Well?" he asked, "What do I type?"

"Tell him the wife did it," Sherlock said not looking at john, "Check her cleaning solutions." John nodded and sent the text. Then he placed the phone back in Sherlock's pocket. He had just made it back to his arm chair when there was a knock on the door of their flat.

"Good morning boys," Mrs. Hudson came bustling in.

"Do come in Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said sarcastically from the kitchen table.

"Thank you dear," Mrs. Hudson said oblivious to Sherlock's tone. She had a package in her hand.

"This came for you Sherlock," she said.

"Give it to John," Sherlock replied. John smiled and took the package from her.

"Who is it from?" he asked turning over the small brown paper wrapped box in his hand. There was no stamp just a small white card taped onto one side of it with the word 'Sherlock Holmes' typed on it.

"A very nice young man gave it to me," she said, "He said it was from your brother."

Sherlock gave a snort and waved his hand dismissively.

"Throw it in the fire John," he said.

"Sherlock!" both John and Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed back this time looking up at them.

John sighed and began to open the box.

"It could be important," he said in reply to Sherlock's annoyed look.

"Probably not," Sherlock retorted, "It is most likely some little thing he wants me to do so that he won't have to do it. And he will claim that it is national importance…"

"Sherlock," john said quietly, interrupting the consulting detective's rant.

"What?" Sherlock asked seeing the change in John's face from being amusingly annoyed to serious.

"What?" he asked getting up and making his way over to his army doctor. John held the box out to him.

In it was a vial of blood. Next to it was a note. Sherlock reached in and took the note out.

"Blood, they say, is thicker than water," he read in a scary monotone, "How thick is your blood Sherlock Holmes?"

"What does that mean Sherlock?" John asked. But Sherlock didn't answer. He snatched up the vial and strode quickly to the kitchen table.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Shut up John and let me work," Sherlock screamed at him. John flinched a bit as Sherlock glared at him, his face a contorted mask of rage. But then John caught a glimpse of something in the detective's eyes. Fear.

"Alright then," said quietly. The relief in Sherlock's eyes told John that he was right on the mark. Sherlock was scared. He picked up the paper and sat back in his chair.

"Will he be alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked softly to John.

"Mrs. Hudson, get out!" Sherlock screamed from the kitchen.

"I watch him," John whispered hurriedly, "Go ahead." She nodded back to him and left as quietly as she could.

An hour later Sherlock came back from the kitchen with the vial in one hand and on the other there was band aid. John took that all in as Sherlock sat in his chair and drew his legs up. His arms rested in his knees, holding out the vial and his band aid finger. John didn't rush him.

"It's Mycroft's" Sherlock said dully.

"The blood?" John asked carefully.

"Of course the blood John," Sherlock snapped, "I ran a test. It's definitely his."

"SO someone sent you a vial of your brother's blood," John stated, "Why?"

Sherlock opened his mouth then closed it back.

"I don't know," he said finally, "I…"

"And how did they get it?" John mused, "I mean, come on. Mycroft's got to have the best security in the kingdom. I mean he is the British government. How in the world could someone take his blood?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said in a smaller voice. His hand closed tighter around the vial.

"Could it be that this is all his doing?" John asked, "I mean like a new tactic to get your cooperation for something?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Not like this," he said gesturing with the vial, "He hates needles. Used to faint when he was younger at the sight of them. He would never…" Sherlock trailed off.

John sat silently, not knowing what to say.

"So what now?" John asked.

Suddenly a phone rang. They both jumped and looked around. There wasn't any telltale light.

"Where?" John asked. Sherlock pounced on the box, flipped it over and slid out a phone.

"Huh," John said.

"It's a text," Sherlock said and pressed the read button.

John came to stand beside him. Sherlock brought the phone down so that John could see the screen.

'Tick Tock. Tick Tock. So moves the hands of the Clock. You pressed the button and now you must play. Your brother's life is the prize in hand."


	2. Chapter 2

I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK HOLMES

* * *

It was Christmas and Sherlock was sitting stoically in front of him. Messy black curls framed a slightly chubby face. It made Sherlock look cute but he would never admit it out loud. Sentiment was a disadvantage. He held a large box neatly wrapped with sickeningly gaudy Christmas wrapping. His parents were in the kitchen singing some silly holiday jingle. Of course they were off tune. He and Sherlock shared a mutual grimace as their father hit a terrible high G which was nowhere in the original score; then their faces went back to the usual mask of indifference that would become their natural facial expressions years later. They stared at each other for a few seconds more.

"Well?" he asked.

"Let me hold it," Sherlock said.

"Tell me what you have deduced about it thus far and I will see if you have earned the right to hold it," he countered. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. He fought back a smile. His brother was always so dramatic.

"Box; large. Dimension approximately twenty by fifteen by eleven," Sherlock began.

"Inches or centimeters?" he interrupted.

"Inches of course," Sherlock drawled, "material; most likely cardboard. From the indentation that it is leaving on your thighs; it's heavy. Or could just be that your thighs are soft and weak…and fat." He caught the frown before it was fully formed and schooled his expression back to neutral.

"Fair enough, but that last part may be irrelevant," he said a bit miffed. Sherlock gave him a mischievous grin.

He sighed and tried to hand to hand the box to Sherlock but he found that he could not move his arms. He tried again, frowning but still the same result. His arms remained pinned to the box.

"What is going on?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Maybe because we are not home," he said casually, "Maybe this is all a dream, a hallucination." He gave Sherlock a sharp glance.

"That is absurd," he snapped, "Of course we are home. This is not a dream. This is not a hallucination."

"How do you explain the fact that your arms are tied to that metal chair," Sherlock asked. He glanced down to see his arm handcuffed to the armchair.

"Sherlock," he said feeling somewhat panicky, "What did you do?" Sherlock held his small hands up defensively.

"It wasn't me," he said shaking his head, "It wasn't me. But you better find out who it is Myc. or else…"

"Or else what?" he asked. Sherlock gave him a sad smile and dropped his hands.

"Or else you will die," his baby brother said, "Wake up Mycroft. You're being tortured."

Mycroft woke with a gasp of air. The sitting room and the decorations and Sherlock spun away like broken glass in a violent kaleidoscope. Then the pain hit him. He heard himself scream out as a fresh wave seared across his chest. His body arced in agony and he felt an arm wrap around his neck tightly to pull him back against the chair. Above him; a bright fluorescent light was shinning down onto him while in front of him a figure squatted between his legs, one arm resting on his left thigh like it was an arm rest and the other held some kind of blade.

"Good," a voice spoke somewhere off to his left, "I was disappointed that you passed out of the reach of your pain. We gave you a dose that was too high. Won't happen again, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

His brain tried to latch on the tone and subtle shifts of the man's voice and compare it to the hundreds of stored away files of voices that he had in his brain but the deductions slipped away like sand, leaving him feeling frightened and frustrated. The arm around his neck was cutting off his air supply and making his vision go blurry so that he was unable to see his surroundings clearly and unable to process much thought but it was not tight enough to make him pass out. Whoever was doing this had the right minions.

"But fortunately for us you came out right in time for the finale of our first act," the voice continued happily.

The cheeriness reminded him of Jim Moriarty but he knew for certain this man was not him. Even in a delusional state Mycroft was sure he would recognize Moriarty's voice. The figure in front of him leaned in again and the cold press of steel sent a shiver down his spine before the man began cutting into his chest again. His body shook and fought despite the fact that Mycroft knew he could not get away or stop the pain. It was a natural instinctual response. He wondered how Sherlock would have handled it. What felt like hours later, but was really only about ten minutes the figure patted his thigh and got up.

"It's done," he said and walked away. Mycroft slumped in chair, his throat sore from screaming and the sweat hid the tears that had fallen from his eyes. The arm moved from around his neck and held his hair instead, pulling his head back and up. Myroft has not energy to graon at the pain that flared across his chest from that motion.

"Say save me Sherlock," the first voice said. Mycroft said nothing as the camera snapped.


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK

* * *

Sherlock stood in front on his wall with his palms pressed together as if in prayer; his fingers carefully aligned together with the tips just barely touching his lips. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on the photograph that was fixed in the center of the wall. Sheets of paper filled with his almost unintelligible scribbles and one vial stained in dull red, framed the photograph with lines of red knitting thread connecting the information that was relevant. He tried to drift his eyes over the sheets of paper to keep himself reminded of all the relevant facts but he kept going back to the photograph. The photograph of Mycroft. His brother. His self appointed arch-nemesis. His teacher. His torture master. His savior. His… He shook his head with one vigorous snap that sent his hair stinging into his eyes. He was getting sentimental now and sentiment was not going to save Mycroft.

'_Go over the facts_,' He could hear Mycroft talking in his head in that condescending tone. How he would long to hear that tone in his ears now. He snapped his head again.

"Go over the facts," he murmured and then straightened up, "Right… the facts." He took a breath.

"Five days ago a vial of blood was delivered to 221B Baker Street at eight pm on the dot. Source unknown. No fingerprints. The vial was housed in a box, details of which I have already stored and do not need to mention at this point. The vial contained blood that belonged to Mycroft Holmes. Personal history already known and does not bear repeating," here Sherlock paused and swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, "The box contained a hidden compartment in which a phone was stored and that phone was used to convey a message which said that Mycroft Holmes had been kidnapped and I was to be the one to save him. The tone of the text almost playful. Could be Moriarty but I doubt that. The tone does not hold the same feel of madness that is associated with Moriarty. It could be that the kidnapper or kidnappers are simply enjoying this." Sherlock paused. His eyes fixed on the photograph.

"Two days ago a photograph was delivered to 221B Baker Street, again at the eight o clock hour. It was a photograph of Mycroft Holmes tied to chair with his shirt gone having been cut off and not done with much care since there are one or two cuts on his chest and arms that suggest a sweep a blade. The appearance of his face and eyes suggest the effects of a drug. Most likely a hallucinogen; or else he would have found a way to send me more information than this if he was fully aware," Sherlock felt a shudder run through him. He knew what it felt like to have his reasoning power slip away from him. How helpless and frustrating it was to not be able to hold onto a cognizant thought. How frightening it was to not be able to distinguish fact from the fantasies of his mind. And he knew it was probably double what he felt that Mycroft was feeling. Proper Mycroft. Steady Mycroft. Unable to hold his liquor Mycroft. Now being pumped full of a hallucinogenic drug. Of course Mycroft would know what it was. But he had no defense for it. Sherlock shook himself and continued.

"Cuts in his chest made with a surgical blade and with equal precision. The applicant of the cuts took his time in making the letter judging by the stage of coagulation apparent from the first letter to the last. The words read 'Save me Sherlock'." Sherlock ran through the other details that he gleaned from the photograph; possible room size, make of the chair and possible locations that it could have been used or bought, the characteristics of the individuals that were dimly illuminated by the camera flash. But in the end of all his deductions he had nothing solid. He needed more data. But he didn't want more data. More data meant that Mycroft would have to suffer more in order for Sherlock to get his precious data. He wanted to scream and throw things but he kept his sentiment in check.

"What do you think John?" he asked, without turning from the wall, "John? John?" There was no answer. With an exasperated sigh he turned to see that the room was empty. His eyes flickered around the room quickly picking out the little clues that would tell him where John and gone and for how long. He sighed; three hours. He had been talking to himself and John had been gone for three hours. He turned back to the wall.

"I have the facts," he murmured to Mycroft- in- his-head.

"_You have the facts and you have connected all what is painfully obvious_," Mycroft-in-his-head said, "_Now you have to find what is not painfully obvious._"

"I've done that," Sherlock said.

"_Don't be stupid_," Mycroft-in-his-head chided, "_Of course you haven't. If you did you would have found the one clue that would start you off on the game. Think Sherlock."_

Sherlock pressed his palms together harder and frowned. He glared at the picture, running the facts over and over his head. He did it in different orders, trying out the validity of all the theories that he had. Then it came. Softly at first, the pieces falling into place bringing the picture into focus. His eyes lit up and he took a deep breath in. His sense seemed to explode; pupils dilated, hearing sharpened, he could feel the coarseness of the fabric against his skin and he smelt John's aftershave coming up the stairs; heard his footsteps. He spun away from the wall, grabbing his coat and swung it over his lean frame. He grabbed john's other coat and flung the door open in the exact moment that John had reached to open the door.

He saw John look up at him. Saw the gears turning in John's mind; the question forming on his lips. Then the quicker dawn of understanding that stopped the useless question from being manifested. John moved past him to drop the grocery bags on the couch and take off his coat. Sherlock helped him into the one that Sherlock had held. They moved quickly down the stairs, Sherlock bursting out from the door and striding to the edge of the sidewalk his mind ablaze with the victory of his deduction. He was right about this clue. He knew it. He felt it in his blood. He held his hand up to sign for a cab.

"Taxi!" he called he could feel the sound waves resonate in his throat. A cab pulled up and he let John get in first. "Scotland Yard." He caught a small smile from John.

"Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock didn't turn from staring out of the window. He loved these moment. Shuck it. He lived for these moments. The world outside was startlingly bright.

"I know where he is," Sherlock said, "I know where he is."


	4. Chapter 4

"I know where he is," Sherlock said as soon as they barged their way into Lestrade's office Sherlock of course would not have considered it barging. It was clear that Lestrade did, but had come to terms with it. Somewhat. John gave Lestrade a half apologetic smile. That seemed to calm the man. The detective inspector rubbed a tired hand over his short salt and pepper hair.

"Know where who is?" he asked.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said with a slight tilt to his lips, "Well any more than usual. My brother. Mycroft Holmes. The one who's been kidnapped. I know where he is."

John rolled his eyes at the insult and sighed. Lestrade looked both offended and confused. But the confused won over.

"Your brother's been kidnapped?" he asked. Lestrade's eyes flickered over to John.

'_Is that even possible?'_ Lestrade's gaze asked.

'_Apparently_' John's gaze replied as he nodded slightly.

"Honestly," Sherlock said flinging his hands up, "What is it like in your funny little brains? Yes, he has. Now you need to call a squad or whatever you call it and go get him. I told you; I know where he is."

'_Should I get involved in this?_' Lestrade's gaze asked John even as he spoke out loud to Sherlock.

"I didn't get any report on him being kidnapped," Lestrade seemed to muse, "But then that is not my division either, Sherlock. My division is homicide."

"And if you don't get on it right away; your division or not," Sherlock hissed slamming his hands on Lestrade desk, "It will become, most definitely, your division. And if it becomes, most definitely, your division. Then I will…"

"Sherlock," John stopped him by putting a hand on his arm.

"What!" Sherlock snapped at him. John ignored him and turned to Lestrade.

"Five days ago someone called saying that Mycroft's had been kidnapped. Sherlock just deduced his location from a photograph sent to us. We need to go get him before he dies," John finished, "We need your help."

Lestrade looked at John and then at Sherlock. Then picked up his desk phone.

"I need three squad cars now. We are going to pick up a possible homicide victim," he said then placed the phone down. "I only said that so that they won't give me a run around," he said to Sherlock's glaring face. He got up, grabbed his jacket and moved out the door with Sherlock and John following him wordlessly.

"John," Sherlock said in a low tone.

"Yes," John answered.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. John decided not to rub it in his face this time.

"You are welcome," he said, "Now where exactly is he?"

"In an old industrial warehouse of some sort, located near water on the east side of London," Sherlock said confidently. John sighed again.

"You know that isn't exactly direct locations," John said as they got into Lestrade's car.

"The searching part is for the fine upstanding officers of Scotland Yard," Sherlock replied. Lestrade glanced back at them.

"So where to?" he asked.

Eight hours and several scathing insults later; Sherlock was pacing up and down in the sitting room of their apartment while Lestrade stood near the door way and John sat in his armchair.

"He is there!" Sherlock yelled, pointing an arm at Lestrade.

"We searched every inch of the place Sherlock," Lestrade said for the hundredth time, "He's not. You were wrong."

"I was not wrong," Sherlock said, "I am not wrong!"

"Then you missed something," Lestrade said. Sherlock glared at him.

"Sherlock, think…" John began.

"Think, think, think," Sherlock sing-songed, "What the hell do you _think_ I've been doing? I have been thinking. And my thinking told me that he is in one of those buildings."

"Sherlock," John ignored him, "There has to be something to narrow the search. Something more…definitive." Sherlock glared at John again. The flung his arm to point at the wall.

"I have been running the data, over and over," he said calmly, "over and over. The clues are right. I am right. If you want something more…definitive…then get me more data!" he yelled the last word and then went back to pacing.

Lestrade sighed and glanced at John.

'_I'll be leaving. You'll be alright?_' his gaze asked John.

'_I'll be fine. He's just…frightened_.' John's gaze told Lestrade.

Lestrade was about to tell Sherlock that he was going when Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs and held out a box.

"Sherlock dear," she began.

"What is it?" he hissed. She swallowed and shook the box slightly at him. He looked at it and grabbed it out her hand, quickly opening it. He took out a small USB stick. His hand trembled slightly and then he dashed to his computed, powering it on and sticking the USB into it. John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson came to sand behind him. There as one folder with two files in it. One audio clip which read 'Listen to Me First' and a video clip that read 'Fun Times'. Sherlock clicked on the audio clip.

"_Well, well_," a voice said, "_Looks like you don't really care about your brother. Either that or you are stupider than I thought you were. I am greatly disappointed in you Sherlock. But even more in your brother. Who would have thought he would break so fast. It's only been six days and he's already almost undone. And who would have thought that all his fears are based on you. After all the mean things he says about you. Who would have thought that your death would be his._" There was a pause then. "_I hope you like the video. It was very amusing to both make and see_."

Sherlock closed the clip and clicked on the video one. It was then the horrors began.


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK

He was in a nightmare. There were no other words that came to him. It would felt frustrating to have to have to resort to such a mundane singular word but frustration at having his though processes stripped from him had long gone. There was only the crisp, numbing clarity of fear. And yes, he did not have time to think about how contradictory the former statement was. He was done. It was over. It had been over when he had to watch Sherlock die for the fourth time while all his attempts to save him had been futile. The story of his life played out in more horrific ways every time it started. He failed to save Sherlock.

He was lying on his back now. His body was one conglomeration of agony; from the shredded soles of his feet to his almost skinless arms. There was nothing of the Mycroft Holmes that had occupied a small position of the British Government. From the corner of his vision someone squatted next to him.

"This is a fine mess Mycroft," a familiar voice said. Mycroft didn't even bother to turn his head.

"I know," he said, his words dull and final.

"What are we going to do about it?" the voice asked. Mycroft did turn his head to gaze at the impeccably dressed Mycroft Holmes that sat on his haunches beside him while leaning heavily on his umbrella.

"There is nothing we can do," Mycroft said to the Mycroft-in-his-head, "It's over. I can't think, therefore I am useless. And I failed to save Sherlock again today; that would make it twenty times I have attempted."

"You know that was just illusions right?" Mycroft-in-his-head said, with an exasperated sigh. That tone would have worked to rile him up but it did not.

"I know," Mycroft replied with something akin to a sob in his voice, "Even in my illusions I fail. If I can't succeed in falsehood how can I hope to succeed in reality?" He turned away from the figment of his imagination.

"Sherlock needs you," Mycroft-in-his-head insisted.

"Sherlock needs someone who can help him when he needs it and when he thinks he doesn't need it but does," Mycroft said, the words flowing from his mouth easily. Goodness knows how many times he had repeated those words to himself as he watched Sherlock pick and choose companions throughout his short violent life and thankfully survived all of them long enough to find John Watson. "That is what John Watson is there for. He doesn't need me; he has John to watch over him." He glared at the Mycroft-in-his-head to send home his point.

The Mycroft-in-his-head sighed and twisted the umbrella in his hand. The figment of his imagination had fixed him with such a look of disappointment, disgust and exasperation that Mycroft colored under it. 'So this is how Sherlock feels when I give him that look, I can understand now,' Mycroft thought. He smiled a little realizing just how far he had gone mentally that he was being brow beaten by a hallucination of himself as he was in his early days. Days before the nightmare. The Look and the Blushing went on for some time till Mycroft sighed.

"What is it?" he asked a ghost of his former impatience slipping in.

"And who will protect John Watson?" Mycroft-in-his-head asked. Mycroft frowned at him. Mycroft in his head tilted its head and raised an eyebrow. It felt a bit disconcerting to be at the receiving end of his own facial reactions.

"What is it that you want me to do?" Mycroft asked the Mycroft-in-his-head. Just then there was a sound of metal against concrete and a cheerful voice echoed in the tiny room that Mycroft was in.

"Are we all done up and rested Mr. Holmes? Are we ready to try and save Sherlock again?"

"What is it that you want me to do?" Mycroft asked his figment again, this time the desperation to know the answer made his voice hoarse.

"Do what needs to be done," Mycroft-in-his-head answered as he got up and dusted off his pants, "No matter what it is. Do what needs to be done." There was a pause as the man belonging to the voice grew nearer.

"And stop feeling sorry for yourself Mycroft. It is unbecoming of a Holmes," his figment said.

"You do know what you are asking me to do will open at least four of the ten serious wounds I have and give me a 87% chance of getting at least six more," Mycroft said to him.

"And how could you calculate those odds?" Mycroft-in-his-head asked as the hallucination's voice and image faded away, "If you weren't thinking?"

A kick to his side sent a wave of pain through Mycroft. He felt a bit surprised since he didn't think he was able to feel any more pain than what he was already feeling. He groaned and tried to roll away. Laughter rang in his ears and then arm grasped his own and yanked him back and up. He groaned again as the swollen soles of his feet made contact with the floor. He felt scabbed over cuts break with hot sensations of pain and knew from the slick feeling under his feet was his blood. The places where the rough hands gripped him also burned and he could almost feel his newly formed skin threatening to tear away. The man who spoke loomed in front of him. He could not see with his left eye, that had swollen shut and the swelling had not gone down. His right eye was just swollen slightly but he could not see well peripherally.

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes," the man said, "I am surprised that you are still alive. But we hope to rectify that today. Today there is only one way to save Sherlock and that is with the ultimate gift." The man paused and thrust his face close to Mycroft's, "That gift will be your life. Remember that."

'Do what needs to be done.' The words of Mycroft-in-his-head came back to him. 'How could you calculate those odds if you were not thinking?' Mycroft bit back a sob. What a time to realize this.

"Bring him," the man said and the men on either side of him began dragging Mycroft along.

'Think, Think,' Mycroft chanted to himself while trying to ignore the way his body shuddered as he was moved. They finally stopped when they had ushered him into the nightmare room. There was a tray on the floor with some knives, a crowbar and hammer. He shuddered again but this time at the thought of what they expected him to do to himself with those objects.

'Do what needs to be done.'

All the years of allowing Sherlock to take the risks. All those years of watching him put himself in danger to protect the ones he loved. All those years of watching from complete safety as his baby brother got shot, cut, bruised and beaten.

The men held him still as the other approached him with a syringe. There was a tiny prick of pain as the needle entered him. He knew what was to follow; his body would start to feel numb and when he tried to move his limbs would betray him causing him to lurch and fall over from attempting even the smallest movements. Then the whispers would begin and would fuel the hallucinations to follow. He needed to time this perfectly. He would do what needed to be done.

"Release him," the man with the syringe said as he pulled away. Mycroft dropped into his hands, wincing a bit. His limbs were already going numb and his vision was blurring.

"You failed all the other times to save your brother," the whispered began, "you have just one more chance Mycroft. Don't fail him this time."

The room began to warp and recede from him. He forced it to stop. Now it felt like he was a room that was like an elongated rectangle; the walls all stretched out and crooked. He crawled his way over to the tray. He would not fail Sherlock this time. No matter what. HE would do what needed to be done.

"That's it," the whispering continued, "Pick them up. Hold them close. You have to save Sherlock. You have to stop him from killing Sherlock."

Mycroft felt the lethargy in his limbs increase as he forced himself to grip the handles of the knife and crowbar. He took several deep breaths trying to clear the fuzzy feeling on his brain. It was almost time. All he needed to do was to get a layout of his surroundings. He tried to get up and found himself lurching to the side. He held back the frustration and fear that wanted to rush in again. He fell onto one elbow and took a slow pan of his warped room. He waited for the whispers to come again.

"Get ready Mycroft," the whispered said and he was ready. He ignored the sensation that the whispered were coming from everywhere. He needed just one more thing to happen. He gripped the crowbar and the knife.

'Do what needs to be done.'

"Look," the whispered said and a long shadowing figure like a distorted arm drifted along the warped walls. Mycroft choked back a sob and lurched to his feet. The pain helped to clear his mind for one second. He saw the three men standing in the corner of the room and one of them had their arm outstretched. Then as the drug began to cloud his mind again, Mycroft Holmes hefted the crowbar and knife. And with a scream that sounded nothing like himself; launched towards the men to do what needed to be done.


	6. Chapter 6

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK

* * *

_ Sherlock shook John awake. The former army doctor jerked upward with a gasp and a right hook. Sherlock leant away from the hook easily and then sat down beside his friend.

"Sherlock?" John asked obviously, then glanced at his clock, "It's three in the morning? What is it?" Sherlock didn't answer as he knew John would pose the proper question next.

"You found out where he is for sure?" John asked and then began tugging the sheet off and swinging his legs down the other side of the bed. Sherlock still had not moved.

"Sherlock?" John asked his voice more confused now. He came and sat next to Sherlock. There was silence for a few seconds.

"I know where he is for sure," Sherlock said, "But…" he paused so that the sentiment that was choking him would not spill from his eyes.

"But he may not be alive when I get there," Sherlock managed to finish with only a hint of tears in his voice.

"You don't know that for sure…" John began. Sherlock silenced him with one look.

"You saw the videos John," he said in a slightly condescending tone, "You saw his condition at the end. He…he can't survive that. The fact that he was still moving at the end of it surprised even me. He…He was never able to sustain much physical activity for long. It is just not in him John. The fact that his body and mind is bearing up under so much strain…" At the last word Sherlock gulped for air, "All because of me." And those last ones were whispered. His vision blurred and hot tears streaked his cheeks.

He reached up to wipe them away violently. John grabbed his hands and held them still. Sherlock thought about pulling back but decided to hell with Mycroft's years of training him to be stone. He leaned forward to rest his head against John's chest. The solid, steady thumping of John's heart was soothing.

"It's not your fault Sherlock," John said.

"It is my fault," Sherlock countered, "He is suffering because of me."

"Look I am not saying he isn't," John said, "But it is not your fault. He cares for you, Sherlock. He is willing to place himself in harm's way to protect you. Even if it isn't a real you. It's nobody fault but that bastard that put him in that situation. So are you going to sit here and blame yourself or are you going to manhandle Lestrade into searching for you brother?"

Sherlock looked up at John. He expected the army doctor to be wearing a frown on his face but instead John had the most caring, gentle look. Sherlock thanked fate, luck, and God for sending him John Watson even if he didn't believe in either of them.

"Now where is he?" John asked.

A half hour later Sherlock and John was standing in Letrade's office.

"Are you sure this time?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes I am sure. I gave you more specific directions this time didn't I? And I gave them to you before we set off off. So would you please get a move on? This one is most surely your division," even as he said the words Sherlock felt the pang of loss course through him. But he could not deny it. Mycroft was most likely dead. For the first time in years he hated the fact that he needed data to solve a case. The last bit of data that he was sent was enough to solve the case but too much for him to handle. To see Mycroft burn himself, cut himself, crawl over broken glass and be seared with hot irons all in a false attempt to save a hallucination of Sherlock had hurt the consulting detective far more than he wanted it too.

Lestrade sighed and made the call. He glared at Sherlock.

"This better not be a waste of time again Sherlock," He said, "and I really hope that this is not my division." Sherlock said nothing as he moved behind Lestrade with John in tow.

An hour later they were at the group of buildings that Sherlock deduced. He felt an unusual dread steal over him. He didn't want to go down and find his dead brother.

"Stay here this time," Lestrade said, "I don't want you advising my men over their shoulders again."

"They needed it," Sherlock countered but stayed, secretly glad at the Detective Inspector's directive. John stood next to him.

"They'll find him," he said.

"I know," Sherlock said, "I told them he was here." They lapsed into silence as the officers split up and began their searching.

"Want to bet on which building it is?" Sherlock said just to say something.

"Really Sherlock?" John exclaimed, "Betting on your brother? Middle one."

Sherlock smiled a little. John could never resist a bet. And besides it gave him something to do before his nerves jumped out of his skin. Not like that would even happen but it just felt like it.

"So obvious that you would choose that one," Sherlock smirked despite the pounding of his heart, "It's the one to the far left." Just then, the officers from the other buildings ran out and entered the one on the far left. The world lurched wildly for a second and then everything stood out in extreme clarity. It was that moment before he was proved right. A few tense minutes later Lestrade came out of the building and nodded to Sherlock.

"See I told you," Sherlock said with a voice that didn't sound like him own, "I was right." He turned away and felt himself leaning dangerously to one side. John caught him and held him against his chest.

"Sherlock," he said. The word conveyed worry, concern and condolences.

"I was right," Sherlock muttered, "Mycroft is…"

"He's alive," Lestrade's voice broke in. Sherlock spun to look at the Detective Inspector.

"What?" he asked, his voice sounding thick and choked.

"He's alive," Lestrade said. And before Sherlock knew what he was doing, he was running towards the building.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft woke up to soft sheets on his skin, a mattress behind his back and the quiet beeping of monitors around him. He took a breath in and then took a slow pan of the room around him. Instantly his brain fired giving deductions as his gaze passed.

_Door opens left, mostly likely on the third or fifth floors. _

_Room is fifteen feet by twenty four feet. Paint is aging slightly at the bottom giving hospital age to be over five years at least. _

_Windows haven't been cleaned in the past four days due to dust collection on the window pane. _

It was a lot slower and shallow than he was used to but the fact that he was doing it made his eyes mist up. 'Sentiment,' he thought but or once did not feel very bad about it. He gaze fell on a figure that sat crouched in a small hospital chair, black mused up hair fell over sharp pale cheek bones.

"Sherlock," he said and the word fell from his lips with the stirring of hundreds of bad memories mingled with a few good ones. But the good ones made it bearable. The figure snapped up and startling blue eyes locked gazes with his own steel grey ones.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said his eyes roaming over Mycroft. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was deduction his condition.

"You have been unconscious five days on your own and three days via drugs," Sherlock said, knowing the first question he would ask. Mycroft winced at the word 'drugs'. He saw a flash of something cross Sherlock's face. Was it guilt? Concern?

"Who was it?" Mycroft asked.

"One of your goldfishes," Sherlock said, "that you apparently placed in a smaller pond than usual and he got angry. His name is Henry Fillner."

Mycroft flickered through the list of names and associated faces in his Mind Bank.

"Ahhh," he said finally, "I do remember him. But very little to say. He was never high on my list."

"Apparently you were the top candidate on his," Sherlock replied.

There was silence for a few seconds.

"Your friends at the Government came and took over the case from Lestrade and his friends," Sherlock said finally.

"Yes I would expect so," Mycroft replied, "They would deal with him in our own way."

There was another few seconds of silence that felt awkward and tense.

"Sherlock" Mycroft began the same moment Sherlock said his name. They both stared at each other till Sherlock waved him to continue. Mycroft swallowed hard then decided that he would just say it.

"During the time of my incarceration, I was placed subject to hallucination of your death," Mycroft said, "It has served to make me realize how much I do care for you. And how much I have failed you in the past and may continue to do so in the future. What I can say however is that I will not stop trying to help you. Because…I do love you. And I really can't bear to lose you."

There was an even more awkward pause. Sherlock had his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond Mycroft. Mycroft sighed and turned his gaze away his brother.

"I love you too," Sherlock said stiffly.

The Holmes brother turned and held each other's gaze. Then Mycroft sighed.

"Now will you please fetch me my phone so I can get out of here," he said, "I can't stand these generic sheets."

John Watson hid a smile as he heard Sherlock retort. HE shook his head. IT never ceased to amaze him how much those two loved and hated each other.

"It's fine," he said to Lestrade, "Want to go to the pub while those two catch up?" The Detective Inspector nodded and followed a chuckling Army Doctor out the hospital.


End file.
